


Six Shooter

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Community: sherlockkink, F/M, Five Times, Gunkink, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-14
Updated: 2010-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-10 13:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's like he likes the taste of gunmetal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Shooter

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this kink meme prompt that got way out of hand: _Anyone/Holmes, fucking Holmes with the barrel of a hand gun. Holmes doesn't know it isn't loaded until afterwards. _ All gun info from wiki &amp; IMDB
> 
> You! This is 80% YOUR FAULT. Except for 3. THAT ONE IS ALL YOUR FAULT.

1\. Howdah

Coward shoots, and Holmes is already moving, but not fast enough. The heavy slug nicks his shoulder; he stumbles, drops to his knees, balancing himself on one hand as he falls forward, gasping. He has to get up, has to get out, but the rush of pain overwhelms him momentarily. Shoes enter his field of vision – distinctive, handmade shoes. He looks up, rocks back to his heels, and Coward is watching him with a blatantly annoyed expression. The gun is bare inches from Holmes' face, and Holmes tries not to even breathe; there's still a shot left. He waits for it, breathless, the final shot.

It doesn't come.

"Really, Holmes. You've turned into a bit of a disappointment."

Holmes resists the urge to copy Coward's own eye roll of a few moments before. Of course, gloating. The downfall of any supposedly great criminal. They're all in love with the sound of their own voices.

The gun nudges his chin, pushes it up from his tense study of the floor. "Look at me, Holmes."

He takes in Coward's flushed face, the memories of the frankly appraising glances in the Order's headquarters, the complexity and depth of the roles he's been playing to fool everyone so well, and gambles. Tilts his head down, keeps Coward's eyes on his own, and lets his lips part, the rounded edge of the barrel pulling at his bottom lip as it wavers in Coward's hand, ever so slightly.

The barrel of the gun is still heated from the first shot, and Holmes' tongue stings briefly as it burns, turns numb in the space of seconds as he licks the bottom seam of the barrel. Coward's eyes go wide, turn stunningly blue as his own lips part, the barest gasp escaping them.

Holmes is sufficiently distracting.

He opens his mouth wider, leans forward, tasting gunpowder and smoke and the sharp tang of metal on his tongue, trickling down his throat. Works his lips around the metal, as thick and long as a cock, teases it as though it can respond, and indeed, Coward does respond, breathing in sharply as Holmes takes it further into his mouth, swallows and relaxes until it brushing the back of his throat. He closes his eyes, loses the sight of Coward momentarily, and in the moment feels himself responding to the familiar feel weighting down his tongue, never mind that it's hot metal instead of heated flesh. He gives in just a little, opportunistic; moans around the barrel, whines, begs wordlessly for more.

Coward sucks in a harsh breath as he yanks the gun out of Holmes' mouth, rests it alongside his cheek, where it leaves a slick trail of moisture. Holmes hears the sound of metal and leather, opens his eyes to see Coward loosening his belt, opening his trousers. Coward drops a hand to Holmes' head, tangles his fingers in Holmes' hair and pulls him forward, too fast. Holmes chokes on his cock, gags helplessly around it as it hits the back of his throat, but still he moans, hollows his cheeks and sucks. Coward's gun drops from Holmes' cheek, slides down his neck and comes to rest, the barrels against his spine, the handle caught between Coward's hand and his shoulder; Coward presses, jostling Holmes' wounded arm, and Holmes cries out at the sharp pain. Coward moans at the sound, presses down again as he thrusts into Holmes' mouth, the hand tangled in his hair holding him mercilessly still, and Holmes can do nothing more than moan and whimper and try desperately to breathe.

If he's lucky, he can make his escape once Coward comes.

*

2\. Webley Bulldog

"You want me to – to what?"

Holmes won't repeat himself; his cheeks are flaming, burning, and he shouldn't have said anything at all. Ever. Or ever again. "Never mind," he says. "Let's just forget this, shall we?"

"Forget- Holmes!"

He twitches, and then blinks as Watson reaches forward. Covers the handgun resting on Holmes' palm with his own, fingertips brushing the thin skin of Holmes' wrist.

"I didn't say no," he says, low, husky, and Holmes looks up, startled. Watson's eyes are wide, his pupils nearly drowned by blue. "God, Holmes, that's … fuck," he whispers. "That's _incredibly_ arousing."

Holmes stills, and then he grins, widely. "Well then," he murmurs. "Shall we?"

Watson doesn't speak, but answers him readily enough, pressing his lips against Holmes', kissing him until Holmes is quite breathless, panting into Watson's mouth. He takes the gun from Holmes, runs his fingers over it without looking away from Holmes; looks down and snorts. "Think we should unload it first?" he asks, teasingly.

Holmes hesitates.

Watson looks up, shocked all over again. "Holmes!" and then, "No. I mean, I realize you apparently have some … attraction to playing with danger, but I am not going to be able to enjoy this if I am constantly worrying!" He shakes his head, thumbs out the cylinder, and begins unloading the bullets into the palm of his hand. Holmes watches, his attention focused on those dully shining slugs. Watson glances up at Holmes, takes in his expression, and waits for a moment after he's emptied the last bullet. Stirs his finger through the pile of brass on his palm; Holmes follows the finger with mesmerized eyes.

Watson sets them aside; all but one. Waits until Holmes is looking at him, not the bullet, and raises it to his lips. Parts them, drops the bullet onto his tongue, where it lies, heavy, tasting of blood and sulfur. Holmes' eyes widen almost comically, his breath suddenly coming much faster. Watson grins around his mouthful of metal, steps forward against Holmes, and kisses him. Opens Holmes' mouth with his lips, and tilts his head back; lets the bullet pass from his mouth to Holmes'. Holmes moans, closed his eyes and jerks, his erection pressing against Watson's thigh.

Watson pulls back. "Open your mouth," he says, and he can barely recognize his own voice. Holmes obeys, instantly, lips parting to reveal the gleam of metal resting on his tongue, vivid against the lurid pink of Holmes' mouth. Watson swallows. "Keep it there," he rasps. Holmes closes his eyes and trembles. Moans.

Watson steps into Holmes again, slides the barrel of the gun under Holmes' belt; leaves it there so he can use both hands to rid Holmes of his waistcoat and shirt, all those wretched buttons … he succeeds, finally, and takes the gun up again, rests in against the hollow of skin under Holmes' ribs. Holmes' skin jumps under the touch, and his head falls back as he groans. "Watson…"

He laughs at that, short breaths warming Holmes' neck. Slides the gun up, tracing the skin with fingertips around the handle, brushing sternum and nipples and clavicle. He only needs one hand to deal with Holmes' belt, and the same holds true for his trousers. He pushes them past Holmes' hips, and they fall the rest of the way; he pushes Holmes slightly, and Holmes backs, half caught and stumbling as he steps out of the last of his clothes, Watson shoving his unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders. "You have too many clothes," he mumbles to Watson, almost unintelligible around the bullet, and Watson laughs again.

"I can wait," he says. Pushes Holmes again, until his legs hit the edge of the bed; he sits, slides back until Watson can kneel between his thighs. Watson shifts the gun to his other hand, coating the other liberally with something slick and cool, eyes the barrel of the gun as his set fingers to Holmes' ass. The gun rests against the skin above his cock, squarely between his hipbones the entire time Watson twists his fingers in Holmes, teases Holmes until he is quite satisfied that the gun will enter easily.

He wipes his hand on the sheets, shifts the gun back over to his right, and watches wide eyed as he sets the gun to Holmes' entrance, presses gently. It slides in smoothly; Holmes gasps, throws back his head and grasps wildly at the sheets, the bullet clicking against his teeth. Watson pauses. "Good?" he pants, and Holmes can only moan wordlessly, shift his hips upwards in desperation. Watson grins, pushes the barrel in further. Soon enough, too soon, the guard is pressed to the crack of Holmes' ass; he twists it slightly and Holmes convulses below him. "Shh," he murmurs absently, and leans forward, closer, balancing himself on Holmes' hip, and covers the head of Holmes' cock with his mouth.

Holmes cries out, arches into him helplessly, overcome. Watson teases him, combining only the shortest of strokes and tiny movements with the gun while he sucks at the head of Holmes' cock, running his tongue over the leaking slit again and again until Holmes is shaking apart, is coughing as he struggles not the let the bullet fall down his throat; he closes his mouth and sucks on it, and Watson listens to the harsh sounds as Holmes breathes shortly through his nose. Holmes doesn't last long, caught between sensations, and gives a muffled cry as he comes, come flooding Watson's mouth. He swallows, steadies Holmes as he writhes on the bed, twitching mindlessly.

Holmes goes limp, breath still shuddering from him, and Watson pulls the gun out slowly, slicked and warm; Holmes moans, weakly, and Watson craws up his body. Turns Holmes' face to his, kisses him; lets Holmes taste himself on Watson's tongue, takes the flat end of the bullet in his teeth and pulls away, dropping it to rest in the hollow of Holmes' clavicle.

Holmes laughs breathlessly.

*

3\. Belgian Pocket Revolver

"Are you sure-"

"Stop being such a wimp, Holmes."

"Excuse me? Really Irene, that's hardly- IRENE!"

"Shhh."

"Oh, god. Are you laughing?"

"Of course not."

….

"Maybe. Just a little. Relax, Holmes. You might actually enjoy it."

Muttering.

"What was that?"

"I said- UNG. W-what was that!? Oh, _fuck_"

"I told you might enjoy it."

"Mmmphf."

"…oh."

"Oh? Oh what? Irene?"

"Well. It's in."

"It's … IRENE! You are not _serious_! Why on earth did I allow you to convince me this wouldn't end badly…"

"Because you have more curiosity than ten cats. Oh, it's not that bad, Holmes. Just don't move for a moment."

"Well, crap."

"You'll have to if you don't stay still."

"Irene! Will you stop that? At least it's not loaded."

…

"No. Absolutely not. You did _not_…"

"Hush."

"Irene! Please, be careful! There may or may not be a loaded gun stuck up my arse, and you are hardly being delicate! This is not the time for jokes!"

"Oh, Holmes. You're far too easy to wind up. There's nothing wrong. Honestly."

"… and you wonder why I don't trust you."

*

4\. C. Sharps Pepperbox

"That's an ingenious device you have there."

Moriarty smiles, a rare sign of pleasure. "I'm rather happy with it. I had an ingenious man come with it; a singular work, I'm afraid." He leans forward in his seat, facing Holmes. "Would care to examine it more closely?"

Holmes see a chance, grabs at it. "I always have an interest in unique items."

Moriarty laughs, scoots to the edge of his chair, nearly on top of Holmes; plants his feet on tops of Holmes. "Drop your little knife first," he says, and Holmes can only stare at him.

He shakes his head. "Really, Holmes. Did you think I wouldn't notice?" His voice turns sharp. "Drop it."

It clatters to the floor. Holmes flexes his hands, tied behind the chair, and tries for a grin of his own. "You can hardly blame me for trying."

"Of curse not. I would quite put out if you didn't." His hand flashes forward, and Holmes leans back before he can stop himself; Moriarty merely turns his hand palm up, displays the small, flat gun. He pulls up the sleeve of his coat, shows off the mechanism wrapped around his arm. Holmes has to admit, it's a lovely piece of work. Subtle, too.

"A match for its owner."

"Flattery will get you every where," Moriarty says, and Holmes hides his grin. He really shouldn't be enjoying this as much as he is.

"It's a pleasure to spend some time with someone as intelligent as myself," Moriarty echoes his thoughts.

"What, not almost as intelligent? I'd thought you considered yourself superior," Holmes says, raising an eyebrow.

Moriarty narrows his eyes. "I always consider myself superior. But we are a close match; to be fair, you have divided your attentions far more than I. And you make an effort to preserve the law in your dealings; I have no such compunctions."

And that, really, is why they will remain in this sort of situation. Moriarty sighs. "Well, soon enough I'll be back to being surrounded by idiots and lacking in conversation." He makes a show of checking his watch. "They should be finished and at a same distance in fifteen minutes."

He glances at Holmes. "However shall we occupy ourselves? Shall we discuss your latest case?" and as Holmes snorts, "No, I didn't think so. My latest success? No, not if I'm going to let you leave here. Mathematics? Surely that's a safe topic?"

Holmes rolls his eyes. "Surely there must be better uses for your mouth than conversation," he mutters. There's a moment's silence, and then Moriarty laughs. Holmes blushes.

"Really?" Moriarty asks. "Well, that's … interesting. No, I don't think I'll be performing _that_ service. But…" he tilts his head, regards Holmes closely. "I might offer something else."

Holmes starts. "What?"

"Professor doesn't always mean conservative and celibate," Moriarty says. Leans forward in his chair again, reaches for Holmes with one gloved hand. Cups his chin and draws him closer, kisses him slowly and carefully, teasing. When he pulls back, there's a flush high on Holmes' cheekbones, an edge in his eyes. Moriarty reaches up with his other hand, fingers curled over the corners of the gun, taps them against Holmes' flushed cheeks. "Yes?" he asks. Holmes nods. "What else?" Moriarty asks, low, commanding.

Holmes finds he doesn't even have to say it; his eyes dart to the dull gleam of the gun, half obscured by Moriarty's hand. Moriarty says nothing, merely presses the gun against Holmes' throat, leaves an imprint against the pale skin as his other hand slides lower, works on fastening and buckles. The gun follows as he runs his hand down Holmes' torso; Holmes listens as it clinks against buttons and watch chains, rasps against brocade. Hisses out a sharp breath as it rests again against skin, as Moriarty presses the side of the gun into Holmes' cock, teases him with the barest brush of finger tips. Holmes bites his lip, only to have it teased out, his teeth replaced by Moriarty's.

He moans into that mouth as leather brushes the head of his cock, as metal slides up and down the length of him. He can hardly move, can't even thrust into the hands teasing him, but it doesn't matter; he's not going to last long. Moriarty's mouth moves to his neck, to the edge of his ear, and he groans, head falling forward, his forehead resting on the brushed fabric of Moriarty's jacket. Another stroke, and another, with a twist of wrist, and he's muffling his cries in Moriarty's shoulder, shuddering out release all over black gloves and ingenious guns.

Two months later, there's a box on doorstep. Inside, there is his very own igenious device.

*

5\. Webley No. 5 Express

"Well, if he follows his pattern of behavior, he should end up here. It would be a pity for him to be alone; I'll just go and keep him company until the police arrive."

Watson's voice stops him at the door. "Holmes. Aren't you forgetting something?" He turns back, with a raised eyebrow.

"Unless you've decided to come along again, I can't think of anything."

Watson closes his eyes, clenches his jaw. His hands shake as he sets aside the paper, rises. He picks something up from the table between their chairs as he walks toward Holmes, and balances the revolver on the flat of his palm as he offers it to Holmes. "Your revolver."

"Ah," says Holmes. "That."

He reaches for it, and Watson closes his hand around the base, pulls it away from Holmes' hand. "Why do you always forget your gun?" he asks, quietly, warningly.

Holmes hesitates.

"Is it simply your callous disregard of your own safety?" Watson's eyes narrow. "Or is it a sign of overconfidence, that you are so _sure_ of your ability to take down criminals unarmed? A sign of recklessness?"

Holmes is never given the chance to answer. Watson shifts his grip, brings his hand up, too fast for Holmes to register quite what he plans, and then Holmes is reeling back, hand clapped to his burning face, barely aware of the blood trickling down his lips, dripping heavily from his nose. "Watson!" he cries, and Watson's mouth tightens; all the warning Holmes has before the gun strikes him again, sending him stumbling back against the door. Watson follows, bunches Holmes' coat in his hand and flips him violently, slamming his throbbing face into the door as Holmes' hands come up to bruise themselves against the wood.

Watson leans in, presses Holmes against the door. "Or is it just habit? You are such a creature of habit; without inescapable reason to change, you remain in the same path, endlessly, self destructively." He bites at Holmes' neck; Holmes gasps, shoves back against Watson. "You need to break yourself of bad habits. Here's a place to start." He pins Holmes in place with his shoulders, drops both hands to Holmes' waist; undoes belt and trousers and shoves them down, the sudden exposure sending shivers down Holmes' back.

Watson wraps one hand around Holmes' cock, strokes it roughly, quickly, and Holmes hardens rapidly, bows his head to rest his forehead against the wood panels as his hips jerk in Watson's grasp. Watson's hand and the cool metal of the gun disappear from Holmes' hip; he has a second to wonder at it before he's answered. Watson pushes the gun between his ass cheeks, scrapping at the sensitive skin; he pulls it back up and the sight catches on the puckered rim of Holmes' hole. He gasps, shudders; his cock twitches, and Watson takes his hand away.

Holmes ruts at the air for s few seconds, so close he can almost feel it, but gives in as Watson presses his lips to the nape of Holmes' neck. He wraps Holmes' limp fingers around the handle of the gun, steps away.

"Don't forget your gun again."

He doesn't.

*

 

6\. Pryse Revolver

He regains consciousness slowly, momentarily baffled. He'd been … he'd been …

"How nice to see you are rejoining the land of the living."

Ah yes. "Entirely unwillingly, I assure you." He'd been chasing Blackwood. Had passed Watson, made the desperate leap from the edge of the pier. Had nearly opened his fingers on the sharp rail of Blackwood's boat.

Had felt heat against his back. Had looked back as Blackwood dragged him aboard, just in time to see Watson disappear behind a wall of pink tinged flame. Had screamed something, no doubt incoherent, and turned to Blackwood, who had been ready with … something. Judging from the lump on his head and the still tacky blood matting his hair, something heavy and blunt.

"Really, Holmes, you are becoming most troublesome."

"So sorry not to be more obliging," he mutters, testing his limbs. He was … oh. He was tied.

"Oh, I'm sure I'll find some way to put you to use." Blackwood leans forward, runs a hand down the side of Holmes' face. Holmes flinches away, violently, and Blackwood laughs. "Indeed."

He reaches down, takes something in hand, and then there is a long moment of blankness.

When Holmes wakes again, his head is violently sore. It's centered on his left temple, and he concentrates on discerning the damage, trying to distract himself from everything else. There's a wide swath of blood down his face; he can feel it tighten as he grimaces. His lip is split, his nose clogged; he can taste blood when he licks the divot about his lip. He's tied face down, blindfolded, spread out on something relatively soft; probably a bed.

And he's naked.

The clues are not adding up to anything he wants to acknowledge.

The bed dips between his legs, and fabric brushes his legs. "You should take better care of your weapons," Blackwood says behind him, and he hears the distinctive spin of a cylinder behind him. He stiffens, and then, as Blackwood spreads one hand on his ass, the other dropping the gun against Holmes' quivering thigh, jerks away, wildly; is brought up short by the ropes, but he doesn't care. He fights, all reason disappearing behind blind panic.

Blackwood starts laughing as he jerks and twists and pants, fights until his wrists and ankles are raw and bleeding, the blood slicking his skin, until he is breathing so fast and heavily he's almost sure he's about to pass out. Fights until he can't; even he can't sustain that level of frenzy for any length of time. Blackwood chuckles as Holmes' stills, pats his hip.

He leans forward over Holmes' back, picks the gun up again and brings it to Holmes' mouth. Holmes turns his head away, and Blackwood's voice cracks like a whip. "Suck it," he snaps. "Or make do with nothing." Holmes puzzles his words for a second longer than he should have to, shudders in disbelief and horror.

"No," he whispers, and Blackwood turns his face to the gun again. He wets his lips, wraps them around the barrel of the gun. His gun. The one Watson had come after him to bring. _Watson…_

The barrel tastes of gunpowder and dirt. _"What was that about saving bullets?"_

Blackwood pulls the gun away after a moment. Leans back on his heels, spreads Holmes' legs wider; presses the barrel of the gun to Holmes' tightly clenched opening. Somewhere, Holmes finds more panic. He struggles again, and this time Blackwood has no patience for it. He cuffs the back of Holmes' head, and the sharp motion sends nausea through Holmes' stomach. He swallows, hard; choking on his on vomit will only make this worse.

Although it's about the only way this could be worse.

Blackwood presses the gun in, slowly. It burns terribly; Holmes moans, cries, makes ragged sounds of pain the whole time, his muscles clenching and flinching spasmodically, out of any semblance of control.

He doesn't know how much could possibly be in him when Blackwood stops. He pants into the sheets, grateful for the momentary reprise. Just barely over the sound of his own breathing, the blood pounding in his ears, he hears something metallic, and a second later, something heavy and smooth, cylindrical, rolls from his tailbone to settle in the hollow of his back. _What…_ and his mind supplies the answer. Bullets.

Oh god, there were bullets in the gun.

Blackwood must have reloaded it; he'd fired the whole clip at the warehouse. He bit his lip as another bullet settled on his back. Two? Or three? He counts, silently, breathlessly, as the bullets piled up, clinking against each other as Holmes trembles, until no more joined them. Six? Or only five? Had he lost count? Had the gun been fired again?

Was there still one left?

"Shall we play a game?" Blackwood inquires, his voice conversational.

_No_, Holmes wants to shout. _None of your filthy games, god no, please no, let me go, oh god, let me go!_

"What kind of a game?" he whispers, shakily.

"Mmm. A guessing game. Tell me," Blackwood leans forward, his breath brushing Holmes back as he stirs a finger through the bullets nestled in the small of Holmes back. "How many bullets are here?"

Holmes jerks at that, and the bullets slide off his skin, tumble to the bed around him, under his knees. "I don't know," he breathes. "I don't know."

"What a shame. I suppose we'll have to play a different game." He twists the gun inside Holmes; Holmes clenches hopelessly around it, his body rebelling, trying to push it out.

He hears a click.

"No," he whispers, and then, "No! No, please, no!"

"But I haven't even explained the rules," Blackwood says, and pulls the trigger. Holmes screams.

Nothing happens.

"Hmm," Blackwood hums. "Oh yes. _There are no rules._" He slides the gun part way out, slams it back in, starts fucking Holmes with rough, brutal strokes, a pale tinge of blood staining his hands. Holmes begins to weep, hopelessly.

_Click. _


End file.
